Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #3: Books 9-12 (A Dead Cold Box Set), Blake Banner [reading in the dark TXT] 📗

of the dead man. The mother alone, trying to convince herself she had not just slipped into hell, the father across the room being consoled by one of his mistresses. I glanced at Dehan.

“There’s a picture of dukkha in action if ever I saw one.” I looked over at Pam and raised my voice, “Mrs. Gordon, Mr. Gordon…” I waited till they were both looking at me. “I am afraid your son is dead. He was murdered at some point during the afternoon or the evening. We are both very sorry.”

Pam screamed. It was a scream of pain, deep and visceral. She fell on her knees, clutching her chest with her hands, staring up at the ceiling, her mouth open wide and her wet face flushed almost purple. Bee gasped, not at the news but at the state of Pamela. She rose and went to her but Pamela turned on her like a savage animal, spitting, “Get away from me! Get away from me! You murdering, thieving bitch!”

Then she was on her feet, rushing across the room, screaming at her husband and at Sally, “Are you satisfied? Are you fucking satisfied? All you ever wanted was to destroy your family! Well now you’ve done it, you piece of fucking shit!”

Sally stood. “Pam, for God’s sake! He’s just lost his son!”

Pamela’s neck swelled, her tendons stretched, and her face turned crimson as she screamed in Sally’s face, “My son! My son! My fucking son! Not his! And not yours, you filthy, thieving whore!”

She gave a small gasp. Her eyes went very wide and her legs seemed to turn to jell-O. Dehan stepped over to her and caught her as she keeled over. Between us, we moved her to a couch by the wall and settled her on it. I studied the major’s face a moment, then Bee’s, and decided she had more of a grip on things.

“Bee, she’s in shock. She’ll soon start to get very cold. Can you arrange for Brown or one of the maids to bring her a blanket?”

She frowned. “Yes, absolutely. And some tea, I think. A good cup of tea. Pull ourselves together…”

She hurried to the bell by the wall and pressed it. Meanwhile, I went to where Gordon was sitting motionless, staring at nothing. I rested my ass on the back of the sofa and watched him a moment.

“Mr. Gordon, are you able to listen to me and take in what I am saying?”

He blinked a few times, then scowled at me. “Yes. Of course I am.”

“Our cell phones have no signal, and the landline is dead. There is no way of contacting the police until the storm subsides.”

He nodded. “Yes.”

“I’ve had Brown seal the room. It’s a crime scene and nothing must be touched until the police get here.”

He stared at me like I’d said something outrageous. Then he frowned across the room at where Armstrong was sitting, then back at me. “That could be days,” he said. “It could be two or three days before we get a signal, or the ferry can land.”

“Well, is there a radio on the island? Surely you have a police station with a radio.”

He shook his head. “This is a private island. There is no police station here. And no radio.”

I looked at Bob, then at Sally. “What do you do when there is an emergency? What does your husband do if there is an accident, or somebody gets ill? You must have some way of contacting the mainland when there’s a storm.”

Bob ignored me, Sally shrugged and Gordon said, “We cope. The way people have always coped out here.”

I sighed. “Mr. Gordon, this is not a game. Your son has been murdered and…” I hesitated.

He looked up at me, frowning, narrowing his eyes. “What? What aren’t you telling me?”

I sighed again and spread my hands. “It is a restaging of your father’s murder.”

There was no mistaking the horror on his face. His skin looked like a corpse’s skin. His eyes bulged and his pupils went to pinpricks. His voice when he spoke was thick. He said, “No…”

“I’m afraid so.”

He shook his head. “No, this is, this is madness. It can’t be. How…?”

Armstrong’s voice bellowed across the room. “How?” We all looked. He stood and took two steps toward us. “How? I’ll tell ye fuckin’ how! Because he done it! He murdered his own feckin’ son! Tha’s how!”

Sally got to her feet. “Robert Armstrong! What are you talking about?”

“He’s a thieving, murdering bastard! Tha’s what I’m talking aboot!”

“For your information, Charles has been with me all afternoon and all evening!”

He sneered. “Well, there’s a big, feckin’ surprise! An’ where was his wife? Screwin’ your feckin husband? Yiz make me sick to my stomach, the whole, disgusting, thieving, filthy lot of yiz!”

Gordon got to his feet. He was trembling violently. “I did not kill my own son…”

Armstrong advanced another step. “Do you expect anyone here to believe tha’? Do you? Let me tell you something, there is nothing! Nothing! That you are no’ capable of! You are a sick, sick man, Charles Gordon!”

Gordon turned to me. He was sweating profusely. “Find who did this. Find who murdered my son. I will pay you any amount you want. Just name it. But find the man who killed my son. I am the Laird. I am a local magistrate. This island belongs to me. I give you the jurisdiction. If there are problems when the police arrive, I will assume full responsibility. As of now, I am employing you as private investigators. Find my son’s killer and bring him to justice!”

I looked over at Dehan.

She shrugged. “It’s not like we’re going to be doing much honeymooning.”

I grunted. She had a point, and the fact was I was pretty sure I had it cracked already.